


The Crossing

by lwise2019



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28824627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lwise2019/pseuds/lwise2019
Summary: Pages 201 - 222 of the First Adventure.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	The Crossing

**_CRACK!_ **

Mikkel Madsen's eyes snapped open just in time to see a large chunk of the bridge structure smash down onto and through the roadbed ahead and somewhat to their left.

**_TWANG!_ **

One of the massive cables that supported the structure split, the ends whipping wildly about. Mikkel had read of people cut in half when lashed by the ends of quite ordinary cables; he was certain that the cable that had just failed could have cut their tank apart. Another ear-splitting twang made him flinch, but the tank kept moving.

More of the bridge was falling behind them, the individual crashes blending into a continuous roar. Crowded against Mikkel's left side, Sigrun Eide swore inventively in Norwegian, and to her left Tuuri Hotakainen, their Finnish driver, was saying something with the cadence of a prayer, in between wordless shrieks of fear. Emil Västerström clutched the back of Mikkel's seat with one hand, the other braced against the wall as he fought to keep his feet in the wildly bucking tank. “We're gonna die! We're gonna die!” he gasped in terrified Swedish. Further back in the tank, Lalli, Tuuri's cousin and their scout, leaned perilously far out of a window, vomiting again. Mikkel allowed himself a few curses in his native Danish.

The tank tipped to the right, slid several meters toward the edge and the sea below, before Tuuri managed to guide it back to a more stable part of the disintegrating bridge. They were going uphill now, which was quite wrong as the Øresund bridge was supposed to angle downwards toward the tunnel ahead. Even as Mikkel noted this, the front of the tank dropped with a sickening thump and, over the tumult of the collapse, he heard the engine whine and the front tracks snarl as they sought a grip on the roadbed ahead. The tank rocked just a little backwards while Mikkel and Sigrun leaned forward against the front of the tank as if their weight, small as it was against that of the whole vehicle, might tip the balance.

Perhaps it did.

The tracks caught at last and the tank lunged forward, throwing the two back into their seats. This part of the bridge, leading down to the tunnel, seemed relatively stable, and everyone heaved a sigh of relief as the tank made steady progress, dodging the worst of the ravages of time. In the mirror to his right, Mikkel saw that the middle span of the bridge was reduced to a few broken supports standing alone in the sea.

Looking ahead, Sigrun muttered, “Awesome, we're going to drown in the tunnel.”

“Don't be a pessimist, Sigrun,” Mikkel chided. Given the disaster that had just cut off their retreat, the team didn't need negative talk from their captain. “It's drained every year when the gate at the other end is secured.” _At least, I hope so. The same crew that drains the tunnel also maintains the bridge which just collapsed._ “Enjoy the tunnel while it lasts,” he added. “It'll be our last safe haven.”

As they plunged into the tunnel, Tuuri flipped a switch to activate the twin triangular lights on top of the tank, revealing the tunnel to be awash in stagnant sea water, the tank stirring up waves as it made its way to the broad, heavy gate that kept out the horrors of Silent Denmark. The stench of the water wafted into the tank through the open window. “Is this the end of it?” Tuuri ventured. “No more tunnel after this?”

“No more tunnel,” Mikkel answered heavily. He'd been here before. “We'll be out in the open.”

“Let's get —” Sigrun began enthusiastically, pushing past Mikkel and Emil and pulling open the door.

“P-please don't exit the vehicle before I've parked it!” As Tuuri fumbled at the controls, the tank rolled forward into a bollard, stopping with a crunch. “There! Now you can leave.”

The water was ankle-deep by the tunnel gate, not deep enough to overtop their boots as Sigrun leapt out, followed by Mikkel with Tuuri and Emil behind him. Lalli remained behind, curled up against the back wall in a ball of misery.

“We should stay in here until morning and then set off —” Mikkel began.

“Let's get this gate open!” Sigrun cried, suiting actions to words by running over to the heavy gear which operated the gate.

Mikkel watched her in silence. Unlike all the others, he _had_ been here before, and he _was_ the second-in-command. He thought she should at least listen to his suggestions before shooting them down. _But she's a troll-hunter and I'm a soldier. I suppose we have different approaches to risk. And anyway, who am **I** to worry about lines of authority?_ With some effort, he tamped down his annoyance at being dismissed.

Behind him Tuuri asked, “Hey, what are those names?”

“Those?” Mikkel did not turn. “It's the ones who fell during the great defeat of Kastrup.” He had read about the memorial but had never seen it. He did not want to read the names, did not want to remember his friends, his cousins, his men. Not now.

“Oh,” Tuuri answered in an uncertain tone.

“Yes, very sad,” Sigrun replied indifferently. “Emil, my right-hand warrior! Lend me your strength!”

Emil hurried to her side and they pushed together on the gear, making no progress. Sigrun was a tall woman, only about ten centimeters shorter than Mikkel himself, but she was slender and wiry rather than broad-shouldered and powerful. Emil was near a head shorter than Mikkel and, though he was stocky, he was a city boy and had not spent his childhood doing hard physical labor on a farm.

Why had Sigrun called for Emil instead of Mikkel? Did she think his bulk was mere fat? Admittedly some of it was; in the past three years he'd put on weight that he didn't need. Still, his size was mostly muscle and he suspected that even now he was stronger than the rest of the team put together.

Mikkel observed their struggles for several seconds before joining them. “Allow me,” he told them, gesturing them to stand back. It was a matter of strength and weight, and he knew how to use both. Careful not to grunt with effort, he pushed the gear forward and was rewarded with a painful grinding as the gate pulled slowly up and back across the ceiling.

“Uhh …” Sigrun said slowly, looking out at the heap of debris in the ramp outside and the thick vines that hung down across the opening.

Emil joined her. “Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of city here?”

“I'm sure it's out there somewhere.” Sigrun led the way through the vines, Emil just behind her. Following the two, Mikkel kept his hand on his dagger, watching and listening for danger.

As the Swede worked his way through the vines, something large dropped beside him, causing him to recoil into another vine. Something the size of his torso fell directly on his head, making him gag in horror and disgust. “Ew! Sigrun, wait! Ew! Ugh!”

Mikkel found that his dagger was drawn and ready as he hurried forward. Shaking his head silently, he sheathed the dagger and lifted the mess off of Emil. It was a small troll, long dead and desiccated, though not much rotted since grosslings were always slow to decay. “Don't be alarmed,” he assured the younger man, “this thing's been dead for years.”

Emil pulled away, shuddering. “I wasn't alarmed. I'm grossed out!” His golden blond hair, which fell straight to his shoulders and had shone with brushing, didn't shine now, smeared with substances that didn't bear thinking about. The bandage which he wore, making him look like the survivor of a real grossling attack, was likewise befouled. Mikkel already regretted the prank which had led him to apply that bandage.

Mikkel shrugged at Emil's words, turned to check on Tuuri. It was cold and the winter sun was still bright, conditions that few grosslings would brave, but “few” didn't mean “none”, as had been impressed upon every soldier. The little Finnish woman — she didn't even come up to his shoulder — was not immune to the Rash as the rest of them were, and a tiny bite, or even a scratch, that they could shrug off would condemn her to a horrible death. Mikkel stayed close to her, hand on dagger again.

Sigrun was already scrambling up the embankment to his left, a slope so steep that she was half climbing and half pulling herself up hand over hand. After taking a hasty look around for lurking enemies and giving Emil a quiet order to protect Tuuri, Mikkel followed the captain up, checking for danger at the top even as he caught his breath. Three years of climbing nothing more challenging than the ladder in the barn had had their effect.

Mikkel turned slowly, matching the terrain against his memory. When last he'd seen it, it had been a supply hub covered in well-trampled snow. Now the equipment was all gone, in place of snow there was dead grass beaten flat by rain, and ten years of neglect had allowed volunteer trees to spring up here and there. Still … _There, we built a pyre over there, but it's gone, just a mound left. And there are the ruts from all the tanks we recovered, all stuck on Öresund base now with the bridge gone. All those lives lost for nothing._

Tuuri's head appeared at the edge of the embankment. As Mikkel took her hand to pull her to her feet, she looked over her shoulder to the west. “What is that over there? Copenhagen? We're _that_ close?”

“Not quite; that's only the suburb area of Kastrup. If the main city ruins were that close, we could not be loafing around this late.” He glanced at the sun: still bright, but definitely moving towards sunset. “I suppose the field gives us enough cover for now.” Emil, he saw, hadn't even made it to the top of the embankment and was half sitting, half lying against the slope.

“Sigrun,” Tuuri asked in a timid tone, “do you think we could … maybe … drive just a little closer today? The sun is still up! … Kind of.”

 _No, no, no! You don't know what's out there! You've all come from lands that are hunted over and scouted and protected, and you don't know what this island is like, abandoned to the grosslings for so long! Tens of thousands of trolls in the city, and swarms of hundreds pouring out to attack …_ Though Mikkel was rarely at a loss for words, he was now. Troll-hunter culture was said to be formed around public displays of courage, so arguing for caution was likely to backfire. Still, how could he keep quiet?

At Sigrun's doubtful look, Tuuri continued, “Please, please, _please_ can we?”

 _What is **wrong** with you? You're not immune! If we're attacked, you have only the four of us to defend you, and I'm the only soldier. I suppose a troll-hunter would be useful in a fight, but I doubt either Emil or Lalli would be._ He opened his mouth to object, even at the risk of diminishing himself in Sigrun's eyes.

“Hmm,” Sigrun answered before he could speak. “Sorry, little pal, but no can do! It's getting too close to dark, and we definitely do not want to be attracting any attention before we've even scouted out the place. Speaking of which,” she added, heading back down the steep slope, “we do need to prepare our first salvage mission! We don't want to be wasting our time driving into too many dead ends or death pits tomorrow. Meaning it's time to send out the scout.”

Mikkel sighed in relief. They could at least spend one night in relative safety. He looked around once more for threats before gesturing Tuuri to precede him back down to the tank.

“Really?” Emil complained as first Sigrun and then Tuuri passed him. “We had to climb all the way up here just to go right back down immediately?”

Mikkel ignored him, concentrating on not missing his footing and tumbling down the slope. It would not do to hurt himself the very first day of the expedition, especially now, when the collapse of the bridge meant their two-week expedition would be unavoidably extended, perhaps for months.

Back in the tank, Sigrun disregarded Mikkel's suggestion that they close the gate and remain in the tunnel for the night, ordering Tuuri to plow through the debris and drive to the top of the nearest hill. At least they — and the tank's sensors — had a clear view in all directions.

With the tank parked, Sigrun took Tuuri and a yawning Lalli forward to discuss the night's scouting. Tuuri was essential for this process, as while she spoke Finnish, Icelandic, and Swedish, Lalli spoke and understood only Finnish, a language unknown to the rest of the team. On seeing this in the scout's file, Mikkel had assumed — and more fool he! — that the notation meant that Finnish was his only fluent language, but that he understood basic Swedish or Icelandic. Surely his cousin would have taught him a bit, and _surely_ his sponsor wouldn't have allowed him into a team with which he couldn't communicate! But here he was, and Tuuri had innocently agreed that he did not speak or understand a single word of any language but Finnish.

Shaking his head in dismay at the communication problem, Mikkel turned his hand to setting up the main compartment for sleeping. There were three bunks folded up against the back wall and two more against the right-hand wall. Unfolding them and making them up, Mikkel examined the hinges and concluded that the strongest bunk was the bottom one on the back wall, so that became his own. Everything arranged, he went forward to listen.

“… and afterwards we need a safe place to retreat to and set up camp at, tell him that,” Sigrun instructed. “And I want him back around daybreak; we should leave as soon as the sun is up. Oh, and explain to him that the lines on the map mean _roads.”_

Mikkel rolled his eyes as Tuuri spoke at length to her cousin. The kid was a scout, and had been for six years, ever since he was thirteen, the age of majority in Finland. He certainly knew how to read a map! As Tuuri finished, Lalli pulled up the hood of his outdoor jacket and mumbled something that Mikkel thought for a moment was “Okay.” Surely he had misheard.

After a brief further conversation, the little scout — nearly a head shorter than Mikkel — slipped silently out the door as Tuuri turned away to study the map again. Still gazing at the paper before her, she spoke again in Finnish, her tone worried, prompting Sigrun to look over at Mikkel, who shrugged.

“If you're talking to your cousin,” Sigrun said, “you should know that he already left.”

Tuuri turned to her in dismay, then leaned against the windshield, staring out into the gathering darkness. Mikkel watched her for a moment, but could think of nothing to say to reassure her. “And now?” he asked Sigrun.

“Well, how about … bedtime? Don't know about you, but I enjoy a good sleep before a troll hunt.”

“Uh, Sigrun?” Emil put in, “Should we really let him out alone like this?”

“You've never worked with a scout before? Being alone is what they _do!_ Even if you offer to tag along, they'll just run away from you. As if you're some crazy lady!”

Emil looked out the windshield past Tuuri, expression still uncertain.

“Don't you worry, Emil. He'll be back before you even get out of bed.”

“I … uh … okay. Hey, um, Michael —”

“Mikkel.” So many people got his name wrong.

“Yeah, Mikkel. How can I wash this _grunge_ out of my hair?”

“Back here.” Mikkel led him to the interior tap and drew a bucket of warm water for washing. They had plenty for now, but would need to find a clean stream to refill their supply. After considerable splashing and complaining, Emil felt himself adequately cleaned up, and everyone chose bunks. Tuuri took the bunk above Mikkel and Sigrun the top bunk on the back wall, while Emil threw himself down on the lower bunk on the right side, at right angles to Mikkel. Lalli, when he returned, would be given the upper bunk on that side.

With the sensors set and the lights dimmed, everyone fell asleep … except for Mikkel, who lay awake for some time listening to the team breathe. He did not want to sleep. He knew that, when he inevitably slept, the nightmares would be worse than they had been since he'd left this terrible place a decade before.

In time, he slept.

The nightmares came.


End file.
